This page features some poetry and thoughts from our collective of poets & writers. Please check out our event page under the link section to keep up to date on what we are up to as well! Disclaimer: Some blogs contain adult language and themes.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

The Apartment By: Marvin Gonzalez

In the course of our lives there come moments that,

Though
seemingly innocuous in real-time,

Forever
alter the fabric of our being,

One
such moment occurred to me by chance some months ago

Outside
Wing Lei’s Chinese Bistro of all places

On
account of a mixed-up order of Spicy Kung Pao Chicken,

As
I stepped out onto West Street,

Greeted
by the insufferable screeching of motor-carriages,

A
gust of wind nearly took off my hat,

Causing
me to prop it down with one hand,

A
clumsy reaction, which caused me to almost drop my take-out,

The
gust subsided, but the half-open plastic bag

Bearing
a dragon emblem whipped at the sky

Like
a half-mast flag engaged in a solemn, moribund dance,

And,
I caught a whiff of what was without doubt

A
beef with broccoli stir fry,

I
promptly turned around to return the mixed up take out

When
I ran square into a smartly attired gentleman whom I quickly

Identified
as Nathaniel Nyelander, a High School chum,

Now
fully grown, a perfectly parted head in a tailored suit,

We
greeted each other, gave each other an uncomfortable embrace,

And
then proceeded to engage in the obligatory

Inquiry
that people who know each other from

Past
lives are often subject:

How
have you been?

What
do you do for work?

Really?

Married?

No?

Any
kids?

Oh,
that’s too bad, I’ve got two small ones myself.

But,
then he asked me a question that only later shocked me

As
I stood in the dead center of my living room

And
surveyed the broken furnishings

And
scant wall-mounted framed pictures

That
comprised my apartment,

Perhaps,
it was shock induced by

Crisis
of Existence,

Or,
perhaps it was the potent, repugnant odor

Of
my roommate’s cat’s piling, Tower of Babel, litter box

That
filled my apartment like a gas leak,

But
I felt an ab-piercing nausea, which caused me to double-over

And
vomit in the artisan clay pot that housed

A
pathetic and withering Aloe Vera plant on our coffee table,

While that simple and innocent question reverberated in my
mind:

So, how’s your living situation?

God, how could such a simple question so ruffle the feathers

Of what had been up until then a cozy existence?

I suppose it had never occurred to me that these objects,

If one can call them so,

Were extensions of my being;

Were direct analogs to the quality of my life,

Goddamnit! What did the crusted pile of dirty dishes

Permanently taking residence in my kitchen sink

Say about my spiritual well-being?

Wasn’t it true that if I were in fact a dignified human
being

I would choose to treat myself with dignity,

And, therefore, not allow piles of fallen whiskers

And soap scum to marry and forge

Over many months only to petrify as miniature stalagmite

Around the sink in my bathroom

Like a pathetically Lilliputian Stone Hedge?

And, what of this Godforsaken bathroom?

Which was so small it was more like a compartment than an
actual room,

Shouldn’t a grown ass man afford himself the relief to
stretch out

When he relieves himself?

Instead my toilet was so close to my bathtub that

I was constantly forced to turn my knees toward the door,

Invariably causing my left quadriceps to cramp,

At which point I have to clumsily lift and thrust

My slumbering, torpid leg uncomfortably over the porcelain
tub,

Draining the blood from my leg strait

Into my left buttock,

Which swells and pulsates so violently

I have to pull my cold, rigor mortis leg out of the tub,

But because it is stiff and hyper-extended

It sends me flying off of the toilet

Only to end up face down in the tub

With my pants embarrassingly pulled around my knees

Leaving my bare ass exposed to the harsh elements

Of this cruel, sick world,

This was no way for a grown ass man to live!

Wasn’t this horrible shifting of position in an enclosed
area

Merely a twisted metaphor for the sorry emotional state of
my life?

Was I not wading in the emotional dregs of misery?

Was not this apartment the cauldron

From which a menacing witch

Mixed apathy, despair and existential agony

Only to rule the actions of my life with her cruel alchemy?

It was then I clearly, lucidly, candidly saw the road before
me,

How could I have been so blind?

I quickly emptied the Apartment,

Leaving my roommate’s belongings,

As well as his fat, asthmatic cat sitting upon her own
droppings

In the liter box as if though she expected little furry
brown

Chicks to spring forth from them,

In the hallway outside,

I took my own things and threw them out the window,

Leaving socks and ties and pages of Deepak Chopra

To decorate the trees outside,

Bums lined my building holding out there arms

Like a fireman catching a kitty thrown from

The burning second floor of a mid-century home,

And, once all was gone, I knew what must be done,

I must find The Apartment,

Listen to these words, parse them please,

“The” Apartment;

Not just “A” Apartment, mind you,

For my use of the definite article here should not be
overlooked,

I needed to find “The” Apartment that accurately represented
me?

“The” Apartment whose granite top counters

Reflected the fortitude and resolve of my character,

Whose radiant stainless steel sinks

Shone as brilliantly as the fire in my heart,

An Apartment with ample fenestration

Allowing sunlight to enter to through its crystalline
pathways,

I wanted to be as that Apartment,

Open and inviting,

Structurally sound and well-furnished,

I wanted this Apartment’s Feng Shui to reflect my Chi,

Perhaps, the austere, modern Ikea furnishing

Would reflect the simplicity and utility of my life,

No more emotional clutter,

I needed open space, light, and symmetry,

And, so I hit the pavement in search,

I journeyed the width and breath of my fair city,

But, nothing felt right,

The one bedroom on Morris St.,

Though charmingly tucked into a grove of Aspen,

Nevertheless, bore the intolerable odor of the past tenants,

Not to mention the patch of linoleum,

Uh linoleum!

That was bubbling up in the kitchen,

The studio on Klammath Lane was lovely, I must say,

But, situated right next to the river I’d have to bear the

Insufferable squawking of geese, morning after morning,

Not to mention that their greenish-white turds would litter
the front lawn

Like the weathered, rustic tombstones of an old cemetery,

I found a delightful remodeled home first built in the 1920s

On Taylor and Peking Lane,

Which still had the charming archways leading into the
kitchen,

The fenestration in the living room had been extended down
to the ground

Allowing natural light to flourish and

Wash the room with a soft focus glow that,

Because it simultaneously muddled the walls

And acutely defined the edges,

Made everything seem both more real and imagined,

The bathroom still had the original white and turquoise tile

Though had been augmented to include a beday and cement
counter and sink,

2 comments:

I read this... at a desk that isn't mine, next to a bed, an armoir, two lamps... nothing mine. I will probably step out of my room tomorrow to trip over a wooden toy car that belongs to a child who isn't mine, to shower in under five as there are, after all, four besides myself who laugh when I try to find some space to practice my yoga.

The cutting board is always dirty. There is always food left on the counter for the ants. Someone eats my eggs. I have chores. Add my sad command of French and I'm but a seven-year-old here at the ripe age of 24.

Thank god it takes but one glass of wine to flower the situation to its vrai import.

How nice to have such lovely comments on a blog post. Alas, the poem, that is the experience from which it was born, is borrowed. Not mine. But, as I say, experience is the penny jar of poetry. Sometimes we take, sometimes we give.

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Spoken Views was created by Iain "Emic" Watson & Tony "Talik" Walker in late 2006. The vision was to create & support an alternative scene of spoken word poets, freestylers, writers, artists & musicians in effort to bring awareness & diversity to Reno's forever growing cultural community. After promoting several spoken word events at Se7en & Beach Hut Deli, the need for these events soon grew. Spoken Views responded by hosting monthly poetry and music nights @ various locations. Poets and writers range in age, skill, and background & audiences are always diverse and supportive. These nights have grown into one of Reno’s most dynamic and consistent poetry events and was voted best poetry open mic 2010 in the Reno News and Review.

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